


Seeking Sunlight

by scorchedtrees



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedtrees/pseuds/scorchedtrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: He is a storyteller, a musician, always weaving tales of others’ exploits—and now it is his turn. Rivetra, based on the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek mythology. Told in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeking Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the story of Orpheus and Eurydice from Greek mythology but as you will see I took many liberties with… everything. So it only resembles the story in the most basic way of plot and that’s it. This is set in some fantasy land in my head as opposed to Greece and… yeah, hopefully it makes sense.

In the beginning, there is only rain.

It is one of the stories he tells the most, fingers plucking away quietly at the strings, gossamer notes hanging in the air to weave a picture everyone is familiar with: the empty skies, the cold dead seas, the barren plains of the earth and the monsters lurking in the shadows, only emerging from the underworld to prowl about when the fires of Hell become too much to bear. A world devoid of brightness, of color, of vitality; a world without life.

And then the rains come: here the music rises in a steady crescendo and the dark chords begin to modulate, not quite happy but not quite solemn anymore as he plays out the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain, growing from a light drizzle to a torrential flood that sweeps the lands clean, sends the monsters deep into the earth back where they belong, clears out the air and brings something fresh into the universe for once. By the time the rains stop, the world is clear and sparkling, a blank slate ready for the three goddesses to come and create life.

It is one of the most well-known stories of the land, one Levi has told hundreds of times, and though he has been complimented by kings and peasants alike for the way his music portrays the tale, he personally hates rain as it makes everything sticky and disgusting and he does not much like the piece itself.

The first time he sees her is a day as similar to the first day of the world as can be: cold and wet, the grounds underfoot a mess, sticks and stones mired in mud, rivulets of water running into cracks in the cobblestones; the world drenched in Sina’s tears as she laments the passing of winter, the coming of the hot season. The plants of the queen’s gardens usually thrive in such damp weather but the torrent is too much for them to handle, their leaves drooping, stems beaten down, roots choked and overflowing. The sky is an angry palette of gray and blue paints, slapped onto the canvas in a fit of pique, and the entire world seems to be crying.

The entire world, except for:

A young woman on her knees amidst the greens, auburn hair plastered to her face and neck in clumps, pale blue dress completely soaked through. A thin jacket thrown over her shoulders, face serene and fingers gentle as she sets the plants upright, pulling them back up from their crooked positions, pushing the sticks they wind around more tightly in place. Rain pounds into the dirt around her, her clothes a patchwork of dark stars amidst lighter ones, but she looks happy as she works, and he thinks he hears the faint hum of a familiar melody in the air.

When she stands to move to the next row of plants, she sees him and her mouth forms a little “O” of surprise. Water is running into her eyes, dripping down the short tangled ends of her hair, but she doesn’t seem to notice at all. He regards her calmly, arms crossed beneath his cloak, and wonders briefly if she is sane.

She pushes a thick strand of hair behind one ear and offers him a small, almost sheepish smile. He does not move or say anything in response and her eyes search his face beneath his hood, tracing the lines of his features before suddenly they widen and she blinks rapidly.

"You are… Levi, the musician who performed in the king’s court today?"

He nods once, curtly, and her face breaks out in a wide grin.

"I was passing by the hall with a stack of plates—they needed extra help in the kitchens—and I heard your lyre. I have heard of your talent before but never would I have imagined—! I could only stay for two minutes but I have never experienced as many emotions as I did in that short amount of time. You play beautifully, truly. It was inspiring."

They are words he has heard hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before—from royals sitting on their thrones as he kneels before them, instrument held carefully to his side, from homeless people in the streets, fingers still and eyes shining so rarely as they praise his ability to hide the ugliness of the world for a while, from mothers with small children clinging to their skirts to surly young men towering over him to elderly folk who claim to have finally heard beauty before they die.

The words are nothing special, nothing new, yet there is something unique about the way her soft voice curls around them, honest and delighted even as rain pours upon her small frame, soaking her clothing, so instead of only nodding again and continuing his trek through the queen’s gardens (he would much rather not take the long way through the great hall outside the throne room and face the masses), Levi finds himself asking, “What are you doing?”

She does not seem taken aback by the abrupt subject change. “I don’t know when the rain will stop and if I don’t make sure these plants are tethered firmly, they’ll get swept away.” He must still be looking at her like she is crazy because she adds, “I’m the gardener’s daughter.”

"You’re completely drenched."

"Clothes will dry," she says with a shrug. "If these plants die they will not come back to life."

She makes a valid point, he supposes, but he can feel the heavy strike of each raindrop through his cloak and she looks so frail, a petite young woman smaller than him with her clothing shriveled and wet against her skin, so before he can think about what he’s doing he is removing his cloak, pulling the hood down and tugging it off his shoulders to toss it at her. The rain instantly presses into him, settling into his skin and bones with a chill only a warm fireplace can ward off, and he makes a face, thinking of how much scrubbing he’ll have to do tonight when he does the washing.

She catches it by reflex, the fabric twisting in her fingers, but she stares at him without moving until he scowls and snaps, “Are you going to put it on or not?”

She draws the cloak around her own shoulders, fumbling with the clasp as she does, even as she says, “But you’re leaving now—”

"There is a carriage waiting outside," he says—not true, but she doesn’t need to know that. "You can keep it. You don’t want to fall ill in this weather."

He turns to leave then, because if he stays any longer he will start to wonder why he is letting himself suffer on behalf of a stranger—he isn’t a kind person by any means; if he were ever approached by a deity disguised as a beggar asking for help he would probably end up getting punished for being an unhelpful ass—and he doesn’t want to dwell on his reasoning for his actions.

Before he can take two steps she rushes over to him, feet squishing in the mud, and he cringes as it splatters on his boots. Suddenly there is something gripping his fingers, cold and wet, her hands small over his, but her smile is almost bigger than her face as she says, “Thank you, Levi.”

It is still raining, a dissonant medley of water sliding off wood and plinking off stones, sinking into the ground, but her voice is a tonic chord amidst the music and he cannot help thinking that were he still telling the story of the beginning of the world, her smile might be the creation of the sun.

.

.

.

Of course, the sun’s appearance is only the very first part of the story. Just as Sina next shaped the clouds and Rose filled the seas and Maria fertilized the land, he sees her many times again and he learns a lot more about her than her smile.

He spends his days traveling, often walking on foot from one city to the next, passing towns and small villages and farmsteads on the way. He has a few meager possessions, a sack of coins, and his lyre slung in a bag across his back, and he only stops when his stomach growls in hunger or his feet can no longer move without protesting each step.

They whisper about him wherever he goes—that he is the son of Sina, goddess of truth and light, the skies and the arts, who left him in the woods with only a lyre to accompany him; that he weaves spells with his instrument, enchanting the citizens of every land; that the flowers bloom and the grass grows green after every step he takes, every note he plays.

Levi thinks they are all ridiculous—he doesn’t remember his parents, only a cheap wooden thing he took from a stall because the vendor didn’t guard his wares as closely as the one who manned the fruit cart, and now he performs because it is all he can do, the only thing that makes him feel alive. He has nowhere to live, no place to stay, and he does not ask for payment for his performances, just accepts coins tossed his way that he uses to buy food and shelter for the night, but they are all kept in one pouch he brings everywhere.

He bought a better quality instrument the moment he could afford one and it’s been with him for nearly thirty years. He has two separate sets of clothing—a cloak, a tunic, pants, and boots—and three different knives, one for slicing fruits and the other two not. He knows how to defend himself and has killed twice before, hiding the bodies before the blood on his blades had time to dry, and the incidents slip his mind as easily as his fingers silence unwanted strings in the chords he strums.

He isn’t the son of one of the three main goddesses they worship, he isn’t a half-divine being who creates magic with his lyre; he is Levi and he just exists, wandering about aimlessly without a purpose in life.

Any deities, were they ever to appear to him, would surely be disappointed: humans are meant to make something of life, something they can talk about when they die and their spirits return to the underworld, and he is doing nothing.

But when he sees her again, the gardener’s daughter with the hair like burnt out fire, she does not seem to agree.

"That was amazing," she says of his performance, voice quiet and breathless with wonder. "You played with so much emotion, just like last time and—how many pieces do you know?"

He regards her from his spot on the floor, kneeling by the chair he sits on to play; her hair is a brighter color when dry, autumn leaves and dried orange peels, the different shades of Rose’s many fingers. She looks older when not completely wet: he thought she was quite young but now he sees she is a grown woman, if only just, of marrying age.

"Many," he says, pulling his other cloak over his shoulders, shoving his plectrum deep into the pockets.

"Did you ever have a teacher?"

"No."

That’s not entirely true; the goddesses taught him, though not in the way most people think. He draws inspiration from Sina’s cloudless blue skies, Rose’s tall trees and rich earth, Maria’s notorious pathways into the underworld. He never acknowledges them outright, but silently he thanks them because while he may be rude and uncaring, he is not a fool and he knows better than to anger the goddesses.

"That piece you played." She crosses her arms and frowns a little, thin creases furrowing her brow. "What happened to them in the end?"

It is the story of what Levi likes to think of as the doomed lovers version six (there are many): the man who upset Rose and was cast out forever to sea, his lover banished to an island and only able to see him once every four years on an extra day Sina created for them out of pity. Most think it a romantic tale; Levi does not.

"There is no end," he says. "We still have one extra day every four years."

"Every story has an end."

"Then theirs hasn’t ended yet."

"So you will keep telling their tale for as long as you live? Until you reach your end? Even then will their story keep going?"

What a strange question. He supposes he ought to feel uneasy but it is hard to do so when she has that curious expression on her face, lightening her features, and he shrugs.

"It is possible."

His travels constantly take him past the palace where she and her father live, where he and his lyre are popular guests. He does not see her every time he visits but he finds that after the first day he meets her in the gardens, she is often on his mind, lurking at the back of his thoughts, greatly puzzling him as to why he can find her so easily in the green and brown of the trees, the swirls of blue and white in the sky.

Every time she talks to him she is full of questions, questions about his music and his stories and his inspiration, but she also wants to know about  _him_ : his life, his hobbies, his dislikes. He has never talked about himself before: hundreds, likely thousands of people have listened to and talked about his music but once the music is over, they move on. To them, there is no man behind the lyre, no one attached to the fingers that strum it. Not that he cares; he really has nothing to define him beyond music. Traveler? Wanderer? Killer? Midget? He snorts at the last one.

But for some reason, she cares; she wants to know and he does not know if it is her inquisitive expression or her gentle voice or her eyes sparkling like newborn stars, but whatever it is he finds himself telling her, giving voice to things he never thinks about.

She wants to know all about the pieces he plays and the foods he likes and the things that make him happy; she wants to know him and his life. He tells her eventually about what he did to survive on the streets, running and swiping and dodging and fighting to stay alive; he tells her about how he first learned to play, clumsy fingers testing the strings, notes in his ears and determination in his eyes and his heart in his throat; he tells her about the storyteller he traveled with as a child, the one-armed blond man with the cold blue eyes, a stark contrast to the warm powerful voice that mesmerized hundreds with his tales.

He is not the only one who talks though; she gives him pieces of herself in return with her words until he feels he has her by his side at all times. He learns early on that her name is Petra, named after the smooth solid rocks in the dirt her father upturns. He learns she has always loved taking care of things, has always helped her father tend to his plants and sewn his clothing for him, has always cooked and cleaned at the castle, swept the floors and dried the dishes and watched the servants’ children as they played. He learns that she enjoys simplicity, the simple nature of life and its pleasantries: the breeze in her hair, the sun on her face, good music in her ears, the feeling of rough bark under her fingers as she scales the trees in the forest outside the palace grounds. Most people are selfish, only wanting fame and fortune for themselves, but she is content to help others in the shadows and enjoy quiet things in life without bothering others.

He asks her, once, her opinion of what people say about his semi-divine heritage. She doesn’t hesitate before answering.

"I think you are as human as the rest of us, and if you aren’t, then you don’t know any better."

His expression must be some strange combination of shocked and amazed as he stares at her because she laughs, the sound light and carefree. She grins at him, threading her fingers through his and squeezing his hand quickly. “Don’t look so surprised, Levi; you may be an extremely talented musician but you’re not that special.”

His heart thumps far too loudly in his chest for him to muster a proper response, and he realizes with a sense of foreboding that he may like her more than he thought.

.

.

.

He plays many love songs, tales of brave heroes and beautiful women, of clever girls and sly spirits, of lovers separated by rivers of blood and tears. The three goddesses are fickle, pushing people together and pulling them apart the next, and many a great story can be found in the folds of their skin, the sky and the trees and the earth and the seas.

Bards sing of the overwhelming feeling of love, something that crawls into your being and takes up residence in your heart, like a heavy longing that can never be satisfied no matter what you do. He strums bright chords and plucks delicate notes, a balance of the heady rush of desire and the quiet steady flutter of understanding, and though sometimes he can almost feel Nile’s strong affection and Mary’s gentle acceptance, he thinks he relates more to Erwin’s resignation as that hero turns to fight the Titans, letting someone else have what he wants.

Levi thought he knew what love was, has played it out many times and decided it is not for him, but never would he have imagined experiencing it himself.

It is not at all what he thought, but it must be love because he cannot think of anything else to explain the way his pulse quickens when he sees Petra, the way his breath catches when she holds his hand or says his name, the way he finds every word that leaves her lips fascinating, even if she is commenting on the weather or how well a stableboy did weeding the flower gardens.

Love is meant to be grand, a soaring swooping feeling that makes you feel like you are walking on air, but instead Levi only feels nervous.

He has been performing since he could first play his instrument, capturing the attention of hundreds at once with harmonies of silver and notes of spun gold, the vibration of his strings the only sound in the middle of a large crowd. Even then he is never worried, never timid, yet interactions with Petra whenever he gets to see her sends his stomach churning with nerves and his heart crawling up his throat.

It is stupid, it is irrational, and he thinks it might be love.

Though she is of age, she is unmarried; her father does not wish to see her wed, she explains once. “He doesn’t want me to leave him,” she says, and if she feels bitter about that she does not show it.

She must not feel the same way, he tells himself, and he makes himself believe it. She treats everyone with equal kindness, and she must consider him a friend the way she does Erd the baker or Auruo the blacksmith.

He convinces himself of this, even on nights when his audiences request love songs and he for once has firsthand experience of the emotions he pours into the pieces—when the firelight flickers in her eyes, illuminating the planes of her face and dancing across the pale line of her throat—when she is utterly absorbed in the music, yet her eyes are intent and focused on him and when he looks back at her he nearly plays a wrong note.

Love is meant to be grand, a formal declaration, an offer and acceptance before anything else, but Levi has never been one for ritual.

He thinks it is all her fault, her fault for being so careless, but he has long since known of her rather boyish nature, the childish side of her that likes to run barefoot through the grass and study insects and climb trees. He finds it rather endearing, not that he would ever admit it, and follows her through the forests behind the palace as she explores the woods, wading through small streams and investigating mossy roots and parting branches to haul herself higher up in the foliage above his head.

She is making her way up one tall tree, tree trunk sturdy and grip firm, when she reaches for the next branch and misses by a hair. There would be no problem but her foot somehow slips at that instant, and then her fingers are scrambling for a hold as she falls through thin air, blotting out the sun in Levi’s eyes in one instant.

He reaches his arms out to catch her and she barrels into him, sending them both tumbling into the dirt. There is no crack but he swears his bones readjust in that moment, sharp pricks of pain stabbing through his sides where he landed. Luckily she is on top of him, cushioning her fall, and luckily she is light, saving his body from further harm, but he is unable to move for a few seconds and he lies there, breathing heavily.

"I’m so sorry!" she cries, turning her head to face him. "Are you alright?"

She is close, closer than she has ever been, close enough that he can see the shapes of her eyelashes, the little slivers of other colors in her irises. Her cheeks are flushed, her mouth parted in surprise, and before he can think about what he’s doing—maybe the fall knocked some sense out of his brain—he leans forward and kisses her.

The moment he does he regrets it—he has always known he is not a gentleman but he should have asked her permission first anyway and this is the  _worst time possible_ —but before he can pull away, he feels something wet on his cheeks.

He tilts his head back to look at her—her eyes are watering, tears trailing down her face, but her smile is bigger than he’s ever seen it and before he can ask her what’s wrong she pulls his face back to hers.

"You’re an idiot," she proclaims, and kisses him again.

He strokes her hair, curls his fingers around her waist—and feels a bit of scraped skin from where her shirt rode up as she fell. “ _You’re_  the idiot,” he says, but she is laughing and he cannot bring himself to chastise her further, especially when he can feel the movement of her lips against his.

"Marry me," he says without thinking, and when she simply replies, "Yes," he knows with a strike of clarity what happiness feels like.

Love is meant to be grand, a majestic thing celebrated by both families and all friends involved, a huge occasion with feasts and music and dancing, but they only want a small ceremony.

The priest of the nearby village’s church will marry them, wishing them good fortune and longevity and all the blessings of the goddesses. Only her father and a few of her close friends will attend; he has no one to invite. She will help cook the feast to be provided afterwards, and if he plays his lyre there will be no one to dance with her.

It is not an auspicious day, the priest warns them; according to their birthdays and ages, they should wait for the first month of the next hot season. But Petra does not want to wait and Levi does not care, and so they are to be married on this day.

Levi does not have enough coins saved to buy the customary robe men wear when they are wed, but he does have enough to purchase the plain white pants and tunic donned underneath. Petra assures him that she has found her mother’s wedding dress and it fits her perfectly.

Petra’s father does not completely support the union—”He’s a  _traveling musician_ , Petra,” he said at one point when Levi was in earshot—but he can see how happy his daughter is and so he does not complain. He is in the palace as some of the servants and Petra’s friends make preparations, and Levi stands outside the small house where she and her father live, waiting for the moment the priest arrives and she steps out the front door and they can finally get the formalities done with, finally be together.

He is still waiting when he first hears the screams.

.

.

.

He has never seen an eclipse before.

There are stories about them, of course, stories he has heard hundreds of times, whispered around fireplaces, told by old men on the streets, passed from one mouth to another around a dinner table; stories he has played himself, using quiet diminished chords to portray the land’s deep-seated unease at the disappearance of the sun. Eclipses only happen when something terrible is afoot—when humanity has overstepped its boundaries, when Sina is angry, when the first Titan was born. The sun is a symbol of birth, of life, and its absence is a dark and unsettling omen.

It should not be shining so brightly when she is not breathing.

Even in death she is beautiful—he could create epics from the dips and valleys of her face, the red rivers cutting through, but the sunshine of her smile that usually overlooks the plains is gone, eclipsed by a hazy cloud settling in her eyes. For once he does not care for the dirt as he sinks to his knees beside her body, gently cradling her shoulders and pulling her twisted form to him, pressing his ear to her chest. There is no heartbeat, of course—the moment he saw the blood painting her face, the glassy look in her eyes he knew—but the lack of warmth makes his stomach churn, something clawing at his insides like it is trying to pull his intestines out.

"I—I just saw her an hour ago," Jean, one of the stableboys stammers. "She was… perfectly fine and—"

Levi does not hear him, does not hear the shocked cries behind him, does not hear the murmurs that someone should send for the gardener and tell him his to-be-wed daughter has entered Maria’s realm. His heart is thumping loudly in his ears, a rushing noise that blocks out all other sounds except his frantic thoughts.

It is not an auspicious day—he  _knows_  that—but he never thought the deities would so conspire against him. They say he is Sina’s son—and he’s never believed it, but—what did he do to anger her? Is it his lack of gratitude for his talent? Is he breaking an unspoken rule by trying to find a slice of happiness for himself in this meaningless world? Is he meant to live and die alone, always traveling, always restless, always searching and never still? Was finding love a mistake?

_No,_  he thinks, fingers clenching involuntarily in the folds of her dress.  _It can’t be._ No matter what, Petra will  _never_  be a mistake. Her lovely smile like dappled sunlight, eyes shining and skin glowing, face alight as she looks at him—she is the best thing he has ever known in all thirty-something years of his life and he will  _not_  lose her.

He is a storyteller, a musician, always weaving tales of others’ exploits—and now it is his turn. The tales are told so many times by so many people they must surely have some grain of truth, some breath of life. And if Maria’s realm exists, he will find it.

He presses his lips to her still-warm mouth and silently vows to bring her back.

 


End file.
